


i wonder if your therapist knows everything about me

by newbie1990



Category: The Riot Club (2014)
Genre: (16/18), Alcohol, Class Issues, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unfinished, brief mention of underage, no actual interaction but hugo has a ~thing for miles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 12:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12342801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newbie1990/pseuds/newbie1990
Summary: Just because there's inexplicably no fanfic for this pairing??? Like, there's maybe...one on FF.Net? And so I had to WRITE SOME MYSELF.





	i wonder if your therapist knows everything about me

**Author's Note:**

> Now I'm just going to talk at you for a while:  
> This isn't finished. It probably never will be, but given how badly I wanted fic for this pairing and how impossible it was to find anything I thought I'd ~do the right thing~ and share (even though it ends at kind of an annoying point?). It's also not that great, imo, but, again, no fanfiction exists for this pairing. Which is absurd, they're like...right there having sexual tension. Hugo literally has a thing for Miles. Why am I so into these fucks.
> 
> (I do not endorse these terrible people but for some reason I desperately wanted to write fic about them. I mean, they're the least awful people in the club but...they're still the worst. Still not sure if posting this is a terrible idea???)
> 
> Also! Title from Fall Out Boy's The Last Of The Real Ones, chapter title from Brand New's Could Never Be Heaven.

it was a mistake. they always, always say that. and he always smiles and lets them kid themselves. if they mean it they won’t be back, and if they don’t?

well.

it was his first riot club party, the first time he’d seen how beautiful, exactly, decadence could be. because there’s the face they put on, all of them, to the world; cool and calm and composed, floating above it all in honeyed air, untouchable. and there’s this, the collision of the gods with earth. carnage, but such gorgeous fucking carnage.

and miles is gorgeous too, miles who’s laughing himself sick over nothing, drunk and stupid and still luminous.

jesus, miles. miles who he’d spent one stupid night of his last year writing limericks about in latin, so very drunk on cheap vodka and not sure which part he should be more worried about being discovered.

miles who had featured in nearly every one of his stupid fantasies since he’d turned sixteen and gone from the good looking kid two years below him to a fucking torment designed to keep him from studying for a-levels, a-levels he needed because *his* father couldn’t just fund him for two years while he pissed his way through an internship.

and now miles was here, taller, and he’d somehow failed to do him justice. people who looked better in real life than they did with your hand around your dick and their face rose-tinted and blurry in your mind’s eye were yet another sign of the world’s unfairness.

he was far too old and far too aristocratic to complain about the world’s unfairness, so instead he walked over and squeezed the back of miles’ neck, ruffled his hair.

‘well go on, share the joke.’

miles turned to him and smiled and only laughed harder, collapsing into his shoulder. the weight of him was warm and heavy, and he’s better than this, better than obvious fucking adjectives even lauren the bootstrapper could improve on. miles pulled back, a hand on his chest. ‘sorry, mate.’ he blinked. ‘now i really can’t remember,’ and he was laughing again, falling apart with it.

and hugo smiled and said, ‘let’s get you into a chair, shall we,’ and it all went exactly the way it always went.

he gave him water even though he waved it away and told him he was getting dull and old and ruining the fun, and it was only because hugo raised an eyebrow and said, ‘i’m trying to make sure we have a better class of fun,’ that he convinced him to drink until he was something that wasn’t quite a complete mess.

and he asked him if he’d ever done this before, told him how much better you know a body when you’ve grown up with it, learnt its quirks and tossed it to completion every morning for ten years. it’s all bollocks, of course, but miles’ eyes are lidded and he says, ‘prove it,’ with this smug little grin he wants to kiss off his face, kiss until it’s swollen and bruised and he takes in a shaky breath. they’re not there yet.

so he’s kneeling between miles’ legs, now, unbuttoning with his clever careful fingers and watching miles smirk at him like he still doesn’t believe it yet, like this is a game. it’s always a game. he always wins.

and finally miles’ cock is in his hand, still soft, and he knows this. he knows it so well, but the skin like hot silk when he swirls his tongue is real now, no matter how many men he sat on his knees before he could never make it *real*, and now it is, and miles’ soft groan as his mouth opens and his head tips back is something he never thought to imagine, why did he never think of that, holy *fuck* -

he doesn’t press his hand against his trousers because for once the friction isn’t a flickering, illicit thrill while he tries to think, not to think, of miles’ face, miles is here, oh fucking hell. he watches him as he slides down his cock, watches him like he’s never watched them before, and thanks god that good old lauren must be shit at giving head because miles’ head has fallen back and his eyes are closed like this is some kind of ecstasy, a religious experience, he told him it was spiritual and it almost is. didn’t men ask to have their eyes burned out when they saw they’d lain with aphrodite? he would ask it, ask it if instead of darkness all he could see forever was *this*, this moment, miles’ soft moans and open mouth and the taste of him - they all tasted the same, but love made you stupid, made you think there was something different and particular, there for your sensitive palate.

he tries not to tell himself lies, but miles has always been his downfall in that regard.

he closes his eyes, breathes in sweat. focuses on the crease of miles’ trousers beneath his palm, the carpet that his knees are sinking into, soft and close to ticklish through the fabric of his clothes.

he’s not thinking. he pulls off, rubs the wet tip between his fingers. miles shudders, jerks upwards like he can barely help it, and fuck, what that does, to know he has that kind of power.

he stands up, and he’s smiling, now, smiling the same smug smile miles gave him a few minutes earlier. ‘consider it proved?’

‘fuck,’ says miles. it’s more of a cough than a word. ‘i - ‘ his eyes are wide and blinking. he swallows, leans back. shrugs, raises his eyebrows.

‘come on,’ he says, ‘you’re giving in that easily? i was barely trying.’

miles sits up. ‘bullshit.’ he tilts his head, grins, cocky again. ‘you like me. we both know that. this is just an excuse.’

‘oh, you’ve caught me. fine detective work, milo. i suppose we’re done here?’

miles leans forwards, hands on his knees. ‘i didn’t say that. we’re the riot club, right, no perversion untapped?’

hugo raises an eyebrow at that, but miles is still watching him, very steady. miles richards, trying to convince him to fuck. it’s hilarious.

‘i think i preferred you full of yourself. smile like that again.’

miles snorts and shakes his head, but when he starts to move there’s that smile. ‘just so you know, i am full of myself. you’re trying to pretend that you don’t want me. you never were that good an actor.’

and then he’s finally kissing that smirk off his face, squeezing the soft skin of his lower lip between his teeth, their mouths split-slick and sliding together, almost desperate, tongues rutting.

they part with a gasp of air. ‘i was the next laurence olivier, and you know it.’ he smirks and hell, they’re kissing again, kissing like they mean it and miles isn’t in this because hugo’s spent the past two years of his life becoming oxford’s best fuck. he can barely believe it and fuck, he’s so stupid, he can’t stand for it to stop, so his hand finds milo’s cock again and he’s jerking, fast tight tugs that make him groan into hugo’s mouth, but he pulls back.

‘i can do that in my dorms, you know. try harder.’ and he smirks and somehow his hand finds its way into hugo’s trousers, and he’s laughing against the side of his mouth. ‘fucking hell, fraser, how long have you liked me,’ but his hand is curling warm around his dick, his hand dry and skin against skin rough with friction.

and hugo pulls back, takes his thumb into his mouth and swirls his tongue around it while he watches, eyes going dark and the way he watches, impressed and so well-trained in the art of being impassive, curious but not nearly as needy, as wanting as - and he wraps that thumb around the head and squeezes, skin slipping in and out of the thumb’s circle.

he presses their bodies together, shifts until their erections are together too, sliding against one another, and his skin is so hot that for a moment - just a moment - he presses his face into milo’s shoulder, feels the shirt cool and crisp against his cheeks. he pulls back, breathes, places a hand there instead. miles is staring at him, his eyes round and glassy and challenging, mouth half-smiling, half-slack.

he wraps his hand around the both of them and *squeezes*, and they gasp in unison, and the want travels in an electric tickle up his abdomen. holy hell. he wants him. he closes his hand around milo’s shoulder, feels muscle beneath the cotton, runs his thumb along the clavicle. his legs feel loose, weak, but he keeps squeezing, gasps choking out of him.

milo’s hand is pressed flat against his chest now, nails scraping through his shirt, squeaking faint against his waistcoat, and they breathe, and they breathe, oh god.

milo’s face is flushed and he can feel the heat coming off him, and there are beads of sweat forming on his face and the air smells of it, something rich and thick that makes him wince.

he presses the heel of his palm into milo’s shoulder, chokes out something, some words, and he’s pulling off his jacket and his shirt with no concern for buttons or seams or any kind of pleasantries (he grew up in a house without servants but this is in his *blood*, dammit, he’ll leave a trail of debris and expect it folded tidily away in the morning as if it never happened).

he tugs down his trousers and milo’s already blinked and stared and started unbuttoning so the whole of his chest is visible. his skin catches the light, and hugo wants to touch, to spread his hand and feel the softness and the rasp of hair against his palms, to map out muscles beneath the pads of his fingers and thumbs.

he’s hard, he thinks, and he feels like he’s been half-hard since the dining hall but this is almost terrifying, it actually hurts, and he can feel the blood pulsing inside of him. and he swallows because milo’s naked too, now, and he wants to run his fingers over that perfect erection, almost reverent, but he can only imagine the smirks, the way milo would smirk at him maybe for months, years, afterwards, catching his eye at a dinner. a secret, something burning between them that could always send him back to this night with a glance. and so he does, and when he looks up he kisses him before he can laugh or make a joke.

fuck, you’re beautiful, he thinks, thinks and he might mumble it too, just under his breath.

‘hold on a second,’ he says, and he darts to the bureau and pulls open the top drawer, dips his fingers in the little jar even as he walks back.

‘trust me,’ he says, and milo gives a little nod.

he trails his fingers through the curve between his buttocks, spreads them wide and slides one finger inside, slow against the resistance. he’s got one hand on milo’s hip, and the skin of his waist is soft beneath his thumb and milo’s looking at him, eyebrows bunched just a little and squinting ever so slightly.

‘trust me,’ he says again, with a smile, and his voice is soft, low. ‘just wait.’

and then once he’s inside amongst all that tightness he curls, twists, searching, and when milo gasps and starts, cock jumping and a little smile starting on his face like they’ve discovered the speed of light he nudges him a little, with the back of his hand, like, ‘see?’.

he slides another finger inside, takes his hand from miles’ hip because he needs to touch the soft red tip of his cock, rub his thumb against it and spread the slickness all over. miles’ breath is coming so fast, and he has to stop, has to make this last, but he doesn’t want to -

and then both of miles’ hands are on his face and he’s kissing him, the kind of desperate kissing he thought he’d left behind years ago, sloppy and wet and his thumb digging into his temple. and miles pulls away with a rush of breath and laughs.

‘you’re brilliant,’ he says.

‘no need to sound so surprised.’

and miles laughs at that, his real ridiculous laugh that’s like the embers in coal, enough to warm him down to his bones if he just pokes at it.

‘what do you want, miles?’ the words come out so smooth but he bites his tongue to stop them coming.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I keep thinking about this and I feel like I should say: I think the film is well aware that they're terrible people. The point is that they cause so much chaos and pain but never actually have to deal with the consequences themselves. And even Hugo and Miles are complicit - they're there for the violence, Hugo wants to sidestep consequences and is an absolute shit about Lauren. Miles knows the whole thing is a mess but he carries on participating. He tries, but not hard enough to stop people from getting hurt (and oddly enough, that means he has to face more consequences than the rest).
> 
> Asjdf basically I mean idk if I've missed the point of the film. I kind of want to try to write about the aftermath from Lauren and Rachel and Charlie's perspective but that would probably mean re-watching and I have v. little time atm.


End file.
